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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206387">Searching for a Former Clarity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s'>t0talcha0s</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout: New Vegas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>All other companions are mentioned, Canon Compliant, Enclave, Great Khans - Freeform, Independent New Vegas (Fallout), The Lucky 38, Unnamed Courier, or they're working towards it, post-DLC, set during the game, they have dinner with the Khans then have a hard talk about pasts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:13:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,480</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade is hiding his past, absolutely he is, but that doesn't give others the right to ask questions about it. It's not easy to let go of a legacy that isn’t yours, especially when the person it belongs to isn’t around to claim it. Arcade's unwilling to let go, even if the Courier makes it simple. Even less so when the Courier makes it hard.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Male Courier &amp; Arcade Gannon, Male Courier/Arcade Gannon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Searching for a Former Clarity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You might recognize the title as the title of an Against Me! Album. If you did, good on you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Lucky 38 is not a loud establishment. From the suite you can hear the gentle roll of tires, the tick of clocks, the cyberdog barking whenever a bug gets in. But it’s not loud, not homey. The Follower’s fort wasn’t homey either but a moldy mattress on the dirt had more companionship then the rag-tag team of whoevers the Courier had living above Vegas. Arcade was good with Veronica, good with Raul, he and Cass could carry on a conversation but that’s about all, Lily was a bit overbearing and made him uncomfortable by pressing a little too hard on some mommy issues Arcade didn’t like to admit he had, and once Boone heard him speaking Latin, even if the Courier talked to him about how it was <em> just some quirk </em> and to <em> not go manhandling the doctor, I’m not itching to have you be the one stitching me up Craig </em> it was hard to re-earn that trust. </p><p>So it was quiet, most of the time, occasionally it was tense, but the wide stretches of room generally left enough space that despite the shared beds one was always able to find their own space. For Boone it was the far end of the dining room table, Cass liked her baths where she thought no one could hear her sing along to Radio New Vegas, and Arcade liked the table in the corner of the game room, by the ham radio. It was a good spot, close enough to the hallway that he can see the elevator and the kitchen and there’s the right amount of light for him to read. Plus there are the snowglobes. Arcade doesn’t know where the Courier gets them but there’s four of them now twinkling on the display. It’s where he’d settled for the afternoon, Raul is out with the Courier and Veronica is cooking gecko eggs while Cass sits on the counter, she’s chuckling.</p><p>“This might go better if you were wearing that powerfist of yours Ronnie.” </p><p>“I do anything better with my powerfist.” </p><p>“Might get less eggshell in there.” </p><p>“What’s wrong with a little texture?” </p><p>It’s all… pleasant. In a way that Arcade hadn’t expected when he signed up for this gig. The people are okay company and the amenities are the best in the state. So Arcade lets himself relax, shifts his jaw so it might unclench, it doesn’t but it’s the thought that counts, and puts his feet up on the chair in front of him. He’s got some old-world history book he scavenged on his last outing with the Courier. The one where they’d stumbled across a crashed vertibird and Arcade had tried to pretend he didn’t know anything about it. He can never tell if the act works on the Courier, he’s a smart guy. Smart enough that Arcade was wary to travel with him in case he saw the way he looked at that robot of his and connected Eyebot and connected Enclave. People hear you’re from Navarro in these parts and don’t bother asking questions. </p><p>The quiet of the suite is broken with a ding of the elevator doors, the crunch of mud-caked boots, and the crash and scrape of something heavy being dropped against the floor. </p><p>“Gannon!” And he can see the Courier out of the corner of his eye. He’s filthy and bloody but there’s that smile over his twang and a familiar sort of weariness-cum-fondness settles onto Arcade’s bones. “I need some assistance, of the medical kind.” Raul steps out of the elevator chuckling and rolling his wrist in his hand. Arcade rises from his spot, dog-earring the page of his book in the middle of a very interesting chapter about revolution.  The thing on the floor is an anti-material rifle, partially dented from the Courier’s carelessness, and about six pounds of ammo. </p><p>“For me?” Arcade jokes.</p><p>“For Boone, since he couldn’t stop eyeing mine. ‘Sides, Raul and I hit big on a couple of bounties this morning.” Raul steps past the two of them, heading towards the kitchen. </p><p>“The two of you got reservations.” He flicks his finger between Arcade and the Courier. </p><p>“A date?” Veronica calls from the stove then, more quietly, “you owe me sixty caps Cass.” </p><p>“I don’t owe you shit until the big man in charge tells you you’re right.” </p><p>“All of y’all mind your business. It ain’t a date and it ain’t reservations. I’m expected over in Red Rock and if anybody here appreciates a good meal it’s the doc.” The Courier turns back to Arcade. “Speakin’ of which I got stung something nasty and a new cut I wouldn’t mind you taking a look at.” </p><p>“And your leg, Boss.”</p><p>“Oh and my leg.” The Courier tapped at a swollen portion of his left calf and Arcade sighed. </p><p>“In my professional opinion you shouldn’t have made it past the age of 18.”</p><p>“You go telling Benny that Gannon, took two of his bullets when I was nearly twice that.” </p><p>“Tell me the story while I’m getting you stitched up.” He reaches his arm under the Courier’s shoulder. The Courier is not a slight man, not halfway to it with all of the time he’s spent walking the wastes of the mojave, but where the Courier spends his days working his body Arcade spends his working others, and the amount of drunks he’s had to help into the Fort is countless and they were often far less willing. “Don’t put any pressure on that leg. How far did you walk on it?” </p><p>“Oh I think I hurt it down by REPCONN, I was helping a real sweet NCR gal in McCarren. You know those fuckers wouldn’t even retrieve the corpse of one of their own. I twisted something carrying him across the train tracks. Would’ve carried him to California if I needed to. Stopped by McCarren to grieve the widow and fix up this old food processor for the cook in the back, a real bitch that fix, and collect on some bounties. Took out a fiend or two ‘cause they were edging too close to Vegas. Then Raul and I swung ‘round Westside, you know I’ve got a soft spot for Red Lucy and she was needing some Cazador eggs I just so happened to have picked up a while back. She asked me if I wasn’t up for a fight and I said ‘just a Radscorpion or two I’ve really got somewhere to be’ knowing Papa Khan asked me for the honor tonight. That’s the sting I was telling you about. See, I took down three of the fattest buggers she had but one of them got me good while I was bowing. Next we-”</p><p>“What you decided to swing by the outpost while you were at it Six?” The Courier laughed, something that bubbled up out of his throat with a loose rasp. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah I get what you’re saying don’t got to chew me out about it, I’m getting better about it. I tell you I am.” Arcade leads him into the master bedroom and the Courier begins to strip off his long jacket, his armor, his shirt. It was the de facto hospital in the apartment. There’s clean water, towels, scrounged medical supplies on the bedside table. The sheets are no longer soft to the touch with how much blood they’ve held. They draw lots to see who has to clean them each laundry day. </p><p>“Acta non verba.” </p><p>“What’re you saying there?” </p><p>“Don’t worry about it.” The Courier hisses at the cold when Arcade puts his hands on his chest. He’s not outrageously muscled, scrappy beneath all the parts of his outfit, but he’s got signs of the Mojave drawn all over his body.  His skin’s still warm from the wasteland sun, he stinks from a day spent trekking the sand. There’s a gash across his left hip from a Legion machete. Arcade grabs a clean towel, some water, begins the process of cleaning away the grime and dried blood so he might get a good look at the wound. The Courier doesn’t flinch. </p><p>“Bastard snuck up on me, don’t go thinking I’m losing my touch.” </p><p>“Trust me you’ve shown your virility, countless times.” The gash was deep but not debilitating. It’d heal into an ugly little scar. Something sleek and raised, puckered due to Arcade’s limited suturing experience. “Where was that sting you mentioned?” </p><p>“That’d be my ass doc,” he says it with a grin, something frivolous and not half-flirting. It was typical of the Courier, all charm and cheat. It’s hard for Arcade not to flip the Courier over right onto his tender, fresh-stitched wound just to catch him off guard and maybe make him hurt a little. </p><p>“I don’t usually get this demanding the first time in bed but, take your pants off.” The Courier laughed at that too, squirming his pants down his legs and struggling to get them over the swell of his calf. </p><p>“This sure ain’t the first time.” The skin of his calf is tight and red, something easy. Just some salve and some bandage and he’d be right as rain. The Courier shimmied off his boxers and Arcade, the pinnacle of professionalism, politely averted his gaze as the Courier flopped onto his stomach. There was a pained, poisoned mark on his left cheek. </p><p>“Did you even bother with Antivenom?” </p><p>“Lily’s got all of it tucked away in that bag of her’s.” Arcade exhaled through his nose. </p><p>“You should be the one carrying that. If you can drag two anti-material rifles home you can carry a few grams of antivenom.” The Courier huffs at his nagging, his chest rising and collapsing with air. Arcade is not a particularly socially adept man but the Courier makes it easy, all trust and love and emotional vulnerability. He’s seen the Courier work someone’s life story out of them in 30 seconds flat. From zero to crying with just a flash of that famous smile. Arcade bandages the puncture, pats his shoulder when he’s done. The Courier hops off the bed, pulling his boxers up his hips. </p><p>“Thanks doc!” He says, giving Arcade a view of more than he asked for. “Id’ve keeled over at this point if it weren’t for you.” Arcade sets the empty container of antivenom and his suturing kit back on the bedside table.  </p><p>“It’s a wonder you haven’t, even with my best efforts.” </p><p>“It’ll take more than a couple of radscorpions to take me outta commission. Now, pretty yourself up we’ve gotta book it to Red Rock. Papa Khan doesn’t take kindly to tardiness.” The Courier pulls on the rest of his outfit. If Arcade didn’t know about the extensive armory in the master closet of the Lucky 38 he would assume the Courier owned one outfit and one outfit alone. The same black slacks, an undershirt, armor, and a long-sleeved duster thrown over it all. Then he picks up his pack, Raul once tried to move it from an inconvenient spot in the game room and had to go lie down after attempting to lift it. It’s no small task but the Courier manages like it’s second nature. Arcade supposes it is. </p><p>The walk to Red Rock Canyon is rushed and practical. Usually it was a son of a bitch to keep the Courier on track from one place to another but he seemed to traverse the Mojave with a single-minded purpose on this occasion. He even gifted Arcade a stealth boy as they snuck through Fiend territory. Wasn’t like the Courier to back down from a fight either. </p><p>“Not like you cower” Arcade notes. </p><p>“Not cowering, just trying to be on time for once.” He grins like his lateness isn’t inconvenient at the best of times. </p><p>“Wouldn’t your mother be proud.” </p><p>The sunset above Red Rock Canyon turns the clouds pink and purple and green and the Courier strides into the longhouse like he was born a Khan. He walks right over to the table where Papa Khan sat. His arms spread wide as his smile.</p><p>“Papa Khan!” He exclaims, all teeth and truth. “Been too long.” </p><p>“Diane informed me you were in town a few nights ago and didn’t bother to stop by.” </p><p>“Just dropping off a recipe, I had no time to stick around.” </p><p>“Next time.” </p><p>“Next time.” The Courier moves to take a seat at Papa Khan’s left hand before looking up at Arcade and realizing there was no place for him. “Shit how rude am I, I guess my mama did raise a fool.” He swung back around the table to clap Arcade on the back, hard. “Arcade Gannon, he’s a doctor with the Follower’s, friend’a mine. You might of figured this is Papa Khan, leader of the toughest motherfuckers around and all that.” Papa Khan nodded. </p><p>“We have a fondness for the Followers. They taught some of our finest minds.” </p><p>“Jerry’s one of them now.” The Courier piped up before Arcade could acknowledge the statements and Papa Khan seemed amused at his comments, as if there were a little joke for those in the know. </p><p>“Certainly. Pull up a chair for your friend Courier, we slaughtered one of our best brahmin for this occasion.” </p><p>“What’s the occasion?” Arcade asks as the Courier scrapes a chair along the ground to sit next to his own. </p><p>“The finality of our decision to fight against the Legion. Our mutual friend,” he motioned to the Courier who had been distracted talking to the mohawked man at Papa Khan’s right hand “was instrumental in bringing to light the crimes of Caesar and his clan of bastards. He’s a good man.” Last Arcade had heard the Khans were a shoe in for joining the Legion, the tides changing so quickly, well. He settled into the proffered seat, a surprised look on his face. It made Papa Khan laugh from the belly, boisterous and devastating. It rattled the 9mm at his hip and Arcade smiled at him. He felt way out of his depth but the Courier dropped down heavy into his seat and handed Arcade a pint of beer.</p><p>“Glad to see the two of you getting along. Drink up Gannon, Melissa told me I oughta give yours a little something extra on account of you look a little stuck up for this party but I’m not tryna kill you.” </p><p>“I thank you for not drugging my drink. There’s no jet in yours, is there?” </p><p>“The Khans make ‘em strong enough. ‘Sides you know I’m a mentats man” And he moved to cheers Arcade, spilling some of the amber on the table. Before the meal the leader of the Khans stands up for a toast and Arcade watched the Courier through the whole thing. Papa Khan talked about the Legion, how they were going to punish them for attempting to dupe the Great Khans, and the Courier, who raised his pint sheepishly at the recognition, and about the NCR, how they were bastards and fools and the Courier laughed through the whole thing. </p><p>Then the meal, the finest brahmin steaks Arcade had ever had, and he’d been to the Gourmand at the Ultra-Luxe. He’d had the famous brahmin wellington once the Courier realized he had a palette beyond gecko steaks and agave. This was before the whole cannibalism scandal. Before Mortimor had been outed and the Courier proclaimed <em> the only good things at the Luxe are Marjorie and the blackjack tables. </em> This was before the Courier’d been kicked out of every casino in Vegas and Cass and he had stumbled into the 38 with bottles of booze and thousands of caps and the Courier kissed Veronica full on the mouth and said <em> we’re rich you asshole, what do you want most in the world? </em> She had laughed it off, both of them being of their particular proclivities, and said <em> a new pair of shoes. </em>  Arcade, seeing how comfortable the Courier was around the grizzly Khans and their rowdy parties, asked</p><p>“You’re not enlisting in the Great Khans are you Six?” The Courier’s cheeks are flushed from the drinks and his smile is a little looser than is usual. </p><p>“‘Fraid not. I’m already a Boomer and a Follower, I coulda been a King, and don’t go spreading this around, especially to Boone, but I’m getting pretty close with the Brotherhood.” </p><p>“You’re a Boomer?” Arcade knew he’d been to Nellis, knew he’d skirted around the blighted wasteland that served as the Boomer’s front yard, but the Boomer’s are xenophobic as a fundamental tenant of their existence. </p><p>“Well they may call me a ‘savage’ but I’ve got the garb and I helped them raise that bomber and Pearl’s given me a standing invitation to tea.” </p><p>“What world do you come from?” It was genuine incredulousness that filled Arcade’s tone. One part admiration and one part fear.</p><p>“The grave.” He laughs, bright as if it were a joke. “I’d be a Khan already if Pops would give me the opportunity.” He nudges Papa Khan who turns to chip in. </p><p>“The Khans are a family, it’s a birthright.” The Courier scoffs. </p><p>“He just doesn’t think I’m tough enough.” Papa Khan grins. </p><p>“I didn’t.” He claps his hand between the Courier’s shoulder blades, proud. “That was before you cleared out every deathclaw in the quarry.”  </p><p>“You sayin’ you’ll let me take the test tonight.”</p><p>“I think your blood-alcohol content’s a little too high to get the shit kicked of you right now Six.” The Courier smiled at him, half-parts vicious and half-parts caring. </p><p>“The Doc’s right Pops, but someday I’ll take it and you’ll have to make me a Khan.” Papa Khan just laughed at that and the Courier laughed right along with him. Arcade, while he appreciated the meal and the invitation, felt like this was maybe the last place he belonged. He wasn’t a man of aggression and muscle, all brain and blood on this doctor, and it certainly showed. He also wasn’t that comfortable with the Khans. They were the ones who sold drugs to the Fiends and the Fiends sold to Freesiders and Arcade had dealt with too many overdoses to look fondly on the chain of command. The Courier smiled though, and it was infectious, so Arcade did too. </p><p>The meal was delicious and the company was good and the Courier mingled with everyone in the building like they were his family. At the end of the night he clasped Papa Khan’s hand between his own and thanked him for his hospitality and promised him he’d visit again soon and warned him not to leave the Mojave without a proper goodbye. Papa Khan laughed and gripped his hands tightly. It was a pleasant goodbye and Arcade didn’t feel a part of it. As they left the longhouse the Courier turned towards him and smiled that smile that made Arcade forgive him for all of the awkwardness. </p><p>“Mind if we take a detour ‘fore heading home?” Arcade’s face was pleasantly warm and his stomach full</p><p>“Sure” he said and the Courier’s hand on his shoulder in approval was enough to make it worth it. The Courier led him to a portion of the canyon overrun with golden geckos and Arcade admired him as he took potshots at them.</p><p>“Mick’s birthday’s coming up,” he explained, “figure he might like a flashy new belt.” Arcade nodded, appreciating the cool night air. The Courier was right, the Khans did brew their liquor strong. </p><p>“You were something else back there.” Tongue sloppier from the booze, the night air, the way the Courier’s shoulders barely shuddered from the kickback of his rifle. He meant at Red Rock, in the longhouse. </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“You were real anti-NCR for a man with a first recon guard dog back home.” It was supposed to be funny. The Courier took a shot, clean through a gecko’s neck. </p><p>“Go easy on him Gannon. He’s a kid, all tore up by loss and guilt.” </p><p>“You’re talking about everybody in the Mojave there Six. What happens when he figures out where I’m from, or Veronica for that matter.” The Courier leveled him with a gaze, sharp and unyielding. </p><p>“Well I don’t rightly know where you’re from and you know I ain’t the judging type so I figure you’ve got more grief with your past then others do. If you’re gonna hint just come right out and say it.” Arcade sighed. </p><p>“It’s not that easy.” </p><p>“Mhm.” The Courier took a hunting knife and slipped it under the gecko’s jaw, slicing easily through the scale as if there was a seam. He was good at it. He split the gecko’s legs and slipped the skin off like a pair of pants. He scraped off the gore on the inside of the hide and the contemplative silence felt like a punishment. He folded the hide wet-side in, and handed it to Arcade. “I know you’ve got a lot of knowledge ‘bout old world tech, sentimentality for pre-war history, lived a life west of here. I might be some shoe-shit bastard born nowhere north of Reno but I’m not dumb. I’d rather you tell me then me start supposin’ because assumptions always bring the worst.” </p><p>“It’s not that easy Six, I mean it.” Arcade slips the hide into his bag. His pleasant buzz replaced by something anxious and tight, wound mean around his intestines. “You push me any harder and you can find me in the fort like all the other junkies.” </p><p>“I ain’t threatening you Gannon, it don’t matter to me where you’re from, I’d just prefer to find these things out from your mouth then from somebody else’s.” The crunch of sand beneath their feet. They walk in quiet for a while, the Mojave night chilling and filled with the buzz of insects. The courier sighs, a release of tension. “Found a helmet.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“In some mine out by Jacobstown. Boone and I headin’ up to one of the ranger stations doing some busy work for a gal at Forlorn Hope. No quips Gannon, I ain’t some NCR plaything despite what you may think. Gotta keep ‘em on our good side if we’re to take the dam without them getting suspicious. Funny little helmet, don’t know how you’d wear it, looks more like something from the brotherhood then anything I’m used to. But it got Boone all up and bothered. I’m just asking you, once we get back to the 38, why don’t you and I head up to the cocktail lounge so you can take a look at it and we can talk. Man to man.” It’s reasonable, Arcade supposes, but the idea of saying the word ‘Enclave’ to anybody, even to the Courier, fills him with dread. He’s been running so long, covered up his westward roots like if he shut his eyes and buried them deep no one else could see it too. </p><p>“Is that your spot for hard conversations?” He remembers a night a month or so back when the Courier went up there with Veronica and she came back blurry-eyed and gripping a dark set of armor tight to her chest. </p><p><em> “You’re </em> not making this easy Arcade.” </p><p>“Okay yes, sure, let me enjoy my buzz while I’ve still got it alright.” The courier chuckled, slipped a hand into his pocket, and held out his flask. Arcade, not usually the type to want to wander the wasteland tipsy, especially so close to the wreckage of South Vegas, took it. Tonight he thought  it might be worth the risk. As they continued their trek the Courier looked at Arcade in his periphery and shot him a smile. He went to nudge his shoulder against the doctor’s. He didn’t press it, didn’t say anything, but Arcade couldn’t help but grin, tipsy. The stars out with this wild man at his side, it is hard not to trust this man and his earnestness. But Arcade is very good at distrust, it’s a skill he’s learned over decades. </p><p>The Lucky 38 is the brightest thing on the strip and the cocktail lounge up at the top is filled with neon light. It’s like it bubbles up from the edges of the windows, you can’t even see Vegas from how far out the brightness juts. Just the clouds and the stars and the light. No one is ever up in the lounge. No securitrons either. The Courier has maybe only been up to the tip half a dozen times. More so lately, after his little vacation out of the Mojave for a few months. Came back with scars that peak out from his hairline and new nightmares. </p><p>He ushered Arcade to a sofa at the edge of the room, the light streaming through the dirty window. The Courier’s hand mark on the glass from a previous attempt to wipe away the grime. Arcade feels a tension all the way down his back, a grind against each vertebrae. The Courier sits across from him and pulls his pack into his lap. Out of it he takes a helmet, yellow pointed eyes with a mean look to them, a thin line of twin rivets down the center of the face. The Courier loops his fingers between some of the tubing at the top of the skull. He looks at Arcade and then away from him. It’s strange to see the Courier on the back foot and Arcade takes a sick sort of pleasure in it, knowing he’s just as uncomfortable. </p><p>“I’m not going to let anything happen to you Gannon.” He holds the helmet out for Arcade to take and the weight in his hands feels like a neutron star. It drops into his lap harder than expected and he irrationally thinks it may bruise. He wants to throw it, to kick it away from him, to stand up and crack some joke and say <em> I don’t know what you’re going on about Six </em> but he can’t bring himself to move. The Courier continues. “History’s never been my strongest subject but I’ve learned a lot lately, ‘bout old world flags and the importance of a legacy and all that connection to the past and whatnot. I won’t, I can’t keep you here if you don’t want to be here and I’ll respect you if you leave but I’m not gonna let harm befall my friend.” </p><p>“How do I know that?” </p><p>“You don’t trust me Arcade?” Arcade was quiet, his nails running over the rivets on the side of the Enclave helmet in his lap. The Courier didn’t look away from his face then his gaze shifted, the confidence in his eyes dropped. “You actually  don’t do you?” </p><p>“Six you’re asking a lot for a past like mine.” </p><p>“No, Gannon I tromp all over the Mojave earning her trust, have you ever seen me judge a man for what he’s done? And you look at me and the things I’ve done for you and you think for a second I’d betray you? For what? For some colonel I’ve never met in some army I’m not a part of? I’m not bending over for Oliver or Hsu or Crocker or Kimball or any of them. Not Mr. House or the Legate either. I’m my own man Gannon, and you are too. But you can’t live your life as your own if you can’t live outside of the past.” Arcade didn’t back down from the Courier’s accusatory gaze, stared right back. </p><p>“You walk into the NCR Embassy, Camp McCarren, Cottonwood Cove, the Fort without blinking an eye and you expect me to believe you’re not playing both sides?”</p><p>“I am playing both sides, but you’re not one of them. You’re not the NCR and you’re not the Legion, what good would come from playing you? Call me a fool but I thought we were friends.” </p><p>“If we are friends wouldn’t you be able to just let this go.” </p><p>“I like to know what dogs I’m laying with. Say what you want about Boone or Raul or Veronica and the politics I keep company with but they’ve all got enough spine to own up to their pasts.” The Courier sighed, rubbed his fingertips into the bridge of his nose, his tone taking a kinder, more familiar bent. “I’m sorry Arcade I don’t mean it like that. I just.” He set his hands palm-up on the table. “I want you to feel safe here. In Vegas, in the Mojave, as my travelling companion. I don’t rightly like seeing you all strung out.” There was a nasty pull in Arcade’s gut, like the Courier had taken a palm-full of his intestines and was trying to pull them up and out of his throat. </p><p>“Six,”</p><p>“I’m not asking for all of it, just enough so’s I can get a handle on this.” </p><p>“I was born in Navarro.” He stops there. Hoping that that could be enough, that the Courier would see all of what he’s saying from just that statement and he wouldn’t have to go any further into the story. Read the history between the lines. What the Courier does is shift in his seat, his eyes on Arcade with an anticipation behind them, a willingness. He looks down at the face in his lap. Sees, behind the yellow eyes: Johnson, Kreger, a different Gannon. “My father was an officer in the Enclave, my mother a soldier too.” </p><p>“Enclave.” Hearing him say it almost makes Arcade get up and bolt out of the lounge, out of the 38, out of Vegas. He holds his ground though, nods at the Courier. </p><p>“It was on its last leg by the time I was born. The NCR rolled through the west coast, took out center command and Navarro was next in line. My father died some time before that and the rest of us took off east.” </p><p>“My condolences” </p><p>“Please, if you’re going to give your condolences, give them to my mother.”</p><p>“Jesus Gannon, I’m sorry.” He’s pressing his nails so tight into his palms but he can’t feel it really. The only people who know about his mother are the people who knew her in life. Arcade’s been called a sentimental man but there’s something wrong about letting it out there, someone else knowing she’s gone. Just saying it devastates him all over again. He swallows and the Courier’s hands twitch on the table between them. It’s obvious he wants to comfort him, but he  won’t, won’t dare. </p><p>Arcade exhales. Hasn’t done so since he’d said it. </p><p>“You get the point Six, nobody around here likes the people I’m from. Tempus nobis obliviscaris. If you want a nostalgic rant call up Moreno.” The Courier gets up and for a split second Arcade is worried he’s going to grab his rifle, or worse, Boone, and he wonders if he could break the glass of the 38 or if he could survive the fall. But he doesn’t, instead he slips behind the bar and pulls one of Mr. House’s expensive bottles right off the shelf, two glasses. When he settles back across from Arcade, who’d been paralyzed, staring into space, hands tight around the helmet, he pours them both a drink. Arcade is finally able to move, to take the glass. </p><p>“Thank you.” The Courier takes a drink. “You don’t gotta go on if you don’t want to.” </p><p>“Maybe later.” It’s petulant almost, unripe. </p><p>“You stay too long in the shadow of what was and you forget that you’re not there anymore.” It wasn’t like the Courier to wax philosophical and it took Arcade by surprise. Made him sit up straighter. He wanted to remove the helmet from his lap but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. It felt like something bigger than him, pinned him in place. </p><p>“You’re not talking about me.” It was an accusation. The Courier itched at a dry spot on the back of his hand.</p><p>“No I guess I’m not.” </p><p>“Trust goes both ways Six, even if I don’t have some artifact to make you talk.” </p><p>“I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Anyway.” </p><p>“Anyway. Those months ago, when I was gone for a while.” Months he’d been gone, like he’d dropped off the face of the Mojave. Came back scarred and with a certain sort of dread in his step. “Met up with a man who knew me. Known me a long time, longer than even I have. You could call him a colleague if you wanted but I don’t think he’d take to that.” He chuckled without a smile. “He’s all, well he’s all vinegar inside. You can’t blame him for wanting something but what he wants is the past. He’s all dead flags and bitter words. But he must’ve been right about me, at least a little and I’m really not trying to be who he thinks I am.” He went back into his drink and Arcade mirrored him.  </p><p>“Dead flags?” </p><p>“American.” </p><p>“He wasn’t” he paused purposefully, hoping the Courier would pick up the slack. </p><p>“No, Legion boy, tribal before that. He wouldn’t be happy at me calling him either.” </p><p>“You worked with the Legion?” He looked at Arcade with insult in his eyes. </p><p>“He was a courier Gannon, among other things.” </p><p>“Got enough of those around recently huh?” The Courier laughed, it was too loud but it broke Arcade out of his tension, allowed him to roll his shoulders away from his ears, to relocate the helmet to the table between them. He stretched out his legs. It was obvious that neither of them wanted to continue this train of thought and Arcade, feeling generous after their displays of emotions, reached forward for the bottle and poured himself a bigger drink. “How in the hell did you get in with the Boomers? The Khans I get, put you in a pit fight and the message is clear, but the Boomers?” The Courier laughed again and this time he even smiled, something big and kind and boy did he look beautiful. He looked out the window, out at Vegas, or since he couldn’t see it over the 38’s lights, at the idea of Vegas. </p><p>“I’ll tell you the story tomorrow yeah? Gotta rest this leg of mine. Doctor’s orders.” He gets up, swings his pack onto his shoulder. “You want me to” he nods to the helmet “take that?” </p><p>“You can leave it. I’ll be down later, got the rest of this bottle to go through.” </p><p>“I’ll tell Cass to whip up that cure of hers.” </p><p>“It works?” </p><p>“Worked after the night I cleared the wrangler.” It’s Arcade’s turn to laugh and the Courier smiles right back at him. It fills him with not trust exactly, but ease. It was easy to say yes to him when he’d stumbled into the Old Mormon Fort, and it was easy to say yes when he asked him to check out his broken rib, and it was easy to say yes when he brought him to Vault 22 and asked if he were up for it. He takes another drink, glares at the helmet, pulls his legs up on the couch and sets his gaze out the window. Maybe if he looked far enough he could see in the world what the Courier did. And if he caught a hint of his reflection he could see what the courier saw in him too. </p><p>The Courier slips out of the lounge and after the hush of the elevator doors slide shut Arcade sits there for a good long while. Just him and the helmet, him with his booze and his past. It’s not easy to let go of a legacy that isn’t yours, especially when the person it belongs to isn’t around to claim it. Arcade is not his father, barely knew him to remember if he cuts the same silhouette, but the Enclave is his father’s work. He can’t let it go so easy, even at the request of a man who somehow makes everything simple. It’s always the right-now with the Courier. And the future too he supposes, the future of Vegas at least. Arcade didn’t know if that included his. If this was some pretty little time in his life where he got to play dress up as a frontline medic with some charmer and live in an apartment the likes of which would impress even the finest pre-war sensibilities. Or if it were something more. A New Vegas with a new age at its heels. </p><p>Arcade exhales so hard it starts condensation on the window. </p><p>He wishes he knew who the helmet belonged to. Had to be a name he’d recognize, at least tangentially, not too many Enclave even got the chance to run east, and even less didn’t turn tail right towards Raven Rock. Maybe he’d show it to Daisy next time he visited, he’d at least tell her about it, ask her if it were a good idea to let the Courier in more than he already had. Not too many people know Arcade all that well. Lovers make poor confidants and there isn’t anyone to call family anymore. But the Courier’s not a lover, not family. Arcade doesn’t know what he is, other than a mailman and a miracle and a pain in his side. </p><p>There used to be names for all the stars and their arrangements. Arcade knew some of them, part of that good American upbringing he had for all of a half-dozen years. Can’t really recognize them anymore, got too interested about what’s on the ground to care about celestial bodies and their meaning. But it’s nice to be so close to them, at the top of the world.</p><p>Arcade stands up, his knees stiff from sitting all that time, and he picks up the helmet. He isn’t going to wear it, wouldn’t even consider putting it on, and he’ll have to stash it somewhere deep in his pack so his roomies don’t get a glimpse and start asking too many unpleasant questions. Arcade’s had enough questions for one day. He’ll answer more when he’s damn good and ready. </p><p>He puts his glass back on the bar on the way out, the all-but-drained bottle. Cass would be proud. At the door to the elevator he was acutely aware of how he could ride down to the casino, walk out the door, and never return. He could take the helmet and the last bit of Enclave suspicion from the Mojave and he could leave. Be done with it for good. </p><p>He almost does. </p><p>But his hand instinctively presses the button for the high-roller suite and his shoulders ache for a real shower and he knows he’ll sleep like the dead if he’s got a bed with real sheets. He can trust the Courier for one more day, and maybe the one after that, and he’ll see how long this good thing lasts.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I always play a high INT courier and I definitely think that's where my wary Arcade comes from (the moment in REPCONN where Arcade tells you to "stop thinking so much, thanks" is defining to me). I know this isn't really an active community but I'm new to Fallout fanfiction and I'm having a great time. </p><p>Leave me a comment! I want to know what you thought and I want to know how you read Arcade.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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